


Paths

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 5 Times, Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-02 06:39:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12721527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Five ways Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran first met, and one way they didn't.





	1. Chapter 1

James Moriarty was in London. And now, so was James Moriarty.

The brothers sat together in a corner of a relatively quiet pub. The younger James nursed his drink while the elder told stories of his exploits.

‘...and I said, “Violet, love, he’s not coming back!” Take one look at him and you’d know! But the girl’s stubborn as a mule.’

The younger James took a sip of his beer and scrutinised the dollop of foam slowly sliding down the side of the mug.

‘Sorry, but why did you invite me here, really?’ he asked. ‘More importantly, how? Have you run out of chorus girls to spend your winnings on? Tired of following in father’s footsteps?’

With no sign of offence taken at these slights, he smiled and said: ‘My pockets are heavy these days.'

‘Last I heard, a captain’s pay was hardly enough for your lifestyle.’

‘Maybe I’ve turned over a new leaf. Instead of investing in Lady Luck, I’ve decided to invest in my dear brother’s future.’

‘If I hadn’t heard everything you’ve said since I got here this morning, or known you my whole life, I might believe that,’ deadpanned the younger brother.

‘I can afford to do both, lately,’ Captain Moriarty chuckled.

James looked back up at him. ‘At any rate,’ he said, quietly, ‘Thank you. The correspondence I’ve been receiving lately is nearly illegible. If those men are as decrepit as their handwriting, they could drop dead any day. I don’t know how much longer I’d take to finalise my treatise if I wasn’t able to meet them in person.’

With a warm look on his face, Captain Moriarty said: ‘I always was proud of you. I never could do what you do.’

James shifted his gaze back to his beer, embarrassed. ‘I… I’d never survive in the army.’

‘Well, you…’ Captain Moriarty hesitated, ‘Well, I can’t say if you would, but I think we could use more clever young chaps. I have a few of them to thank for my good fortune.’

‘...It’s not _fortune_ , then, is it?’

‘Ah,’ said the captain, ‘It's...fortunate one of them in particular has a good head for strategy. He’ll fast rise in the ranks, I’m sure.’

‘Good for you both,’ said James. ‘At last, someone has taught you not to rely on the mercy of probability.’

Captain Moriarty laughed. ‘I think you two would get along.’


	2. Chapter 2

The train picked up speed and started its rush across the countryside, towards London. Moriarty looked out the window, lost in thought.

Sooner or later, Mrs Stewart would have to be taken out of the picture. She was a dead woman walking. He would stop her from walking. It was only a question of how.

In the absence of any new ideas, he brought his attention back to his surroundings.

He was not alone in his compartment. He shared it with a stranger, a man who was now flipping through a book. On its front cover, he could make out its title: Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas.

The book looked new, and the man was turning the pages too fast to be reading it properly. Even if he had extraordinary reading abilities, at that rate, he would reach the end in a matter of minutes. Moriarty wondered why he brought it with him at all.

He observed him out of the corner of his eye. The man was probably around the age of forty, heavily-built, and sported a meticulously waxed moustache and sideburns. Moriarty could imagine him hunting heavy game in the Western Himalayas, with less hair wax.

Perhaps he had already done so, and was unimpressed by the book. But he had started going through it at that speed since the first few pages - it was unlikely that would have been enough for him to judge it.

Perhaps he had already started reading it, and was looking for the page he had stopped at. But no - he would not need to look at every page.

Perhaps he had read the entire book before, and was searching for something. Perhaps he...

'I wrote it.'

Moriarty flinched. The man spoke without looking up from the book.

Then, he smiled. 'Other people have peripheral vision, too.'

Moriarty cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. He felt his neck grow warm. He gave the man an apologetic smile in return, but said nothing.

His thoughts turned to the Mrs Stewart issue once more. But the man spoke again.

'The biggest advantage you can get as a hunter is for them not to see you coming.'

Moriarty glanced at him and nodded, absent-mindedly.

'They're the fairest kind of game, in the sense that you have as fair a chance of becoming their quarry. The odds favour them in terms of strength. When's the last time a pheasant killed anyone? Face them head-on and they'll tear you apart. It's the set-up that tilts the balance. Bait, cover, and most importantly, the right gun. Don't even try without the right gun.'

Moriarty blinked. 'Excuse me...' he looked at the book's cover, 'Mr Moran.'

'Yes?' He sounded pleased that Moriarty had finally spoken.

'That's very interesting. I've never done such things. When did you do all this?'

'I returned from India almost two years ago. My time there was eventful.'

'Ah, were you in the military?'

'Yes.  _Colonel_   Sebastian Moran - that's not on the cover.'

'Why, my elder brother is a colonel. James Moriarty is his name, and also mine.'

'I'm afraid we never crossed paths,' said Moran. 'Sorry, did you say "also mine"?'

'Yes, we only have one name between us.'

'Your childhood must have been confusing.'

'We managed,' said Moriarty, wearily, 'somehow.'

'What do you do, Mr Moriarty?'

'I, until very recently, held a teaching position as a professor of mathematics. I have left my post and moved to London, where I intend to continue teaching, in some other capacity.'

'Ah, London,' said Moran. 'I live there, too. But none of the publishers there wanted my book, which is why...' He indicated the train.

'I see,' said Moriarty.

'Just after I retired, I tried writing fiction for magazines. I wrote poems in school, believe it or not. Even the teachers found it hard to believe. Anyway, the first story I submitted was rejected because it was "unrealistic". But I based it on a tiger attack I saw with my own eyes - as the target!'

'Quite a story!'

'It was the last bit of excitement I had before I left India,' said Moran, his voice now betraying a bitter edge. 'Now all that is just fodder for my memoirs.'

'I suppose,' said Moriarty, 'you wouldn't have left India without a good reason.'

'That's right,' said Moran, unusually curt compared to his earlier gregariousness. Moriarty took note.

'I never envisioned that I would voluntarily leave my post,' Moriarty said, 'but these things happen.'

Moran gave a light nod.

'I should like to read your book someday,' Moriarty said, switching the topic.

'Why wait?' said Moran, holding out his book. 'You can have this one.'

'Are you sure? Thank you,' replied Moriarty, surprised. He took it.

As Moriarty observed Moran more closely during their conversation, Moriarty sensed a restlessness to his demeanour. Some sign of strain, of desperation, in his friendliness. An unspent energy. It intrigued him.

He decided to find out more about him, from now on.

But immediately, the thought of Mrs Stewart again distracted him. It would be at least a few years before she would be a major risk. If she died by coincidence, it would be a weight off his shoulders. But he had better come up with a good plan in case she did not.

Then, it hit him.

Yes - the right gun. He had not found the right gun.

If Moriarty's hopes would prove true, they had found each other.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Stewart: Refer to EMPT.


	3. Chapter 3

'You idiot!'

'Yes. I am an idiot. I was an idiot,' said Oliver Codrington, 'A drunken idiot.'

'The level of sheer idiocy it would take to gamble away someone else's money,' Moran said, 'When you were supposed to transfer it to him, on pain of death, was unimaginable to me until now.'

The only way Codrington's face could have grown paler would be for Moran to have literally drained the blood from him. Perhaps the poor devil's debtor would do that, if Moran did not give up his full claim. That is, if this man Codrington so feared - but had apparently forgotten to fear at the gaming table - was real. Moran doubted it.

Moran took a pull at his cigarette. He offered one to Codrington when he entered his rooms, and joked that it was the only thing he would not be in debt to him for. Codrington refused it. Moran took it as more evidence of his horrible judgement.

'My father disinherited me. That's why I assisted with the heist, even if I was only entitled to keep a portion of the loot. So I cannot afford...' said Codrington, eyes cast downwards in shame.

Moran winced. 'And all this because that woman was watching you place bets. She won't want anything to do with you when she finds out. Bravo.'

'I could pawn and sell my possessions,' said Codrington, 'but I don't know how long he is willing to wait. I thought maybe you could wait. I swear I will pay you.'

'Your word that you will not run away - why, all the riches in the world could not compare to that!'

'Please!' Codrington gasped, 'I thought I would first appeal to you because of how highly they speak of you at the club!'

Moran let a stream of smoke escape his mouth, listlessly. He said nothing.

'Of course, this is all my own fault,' Codrington added, 'I put my head in the noose willingly. I only hoped for an escape...'

'You are not entirely an idiot, after all! Some men have no honour. They wager what they are not willing to lose, then try to wrest it back. Don't be like them.'

'I only thought,' said Codrington, swallowing, 'you might show me mercy if you knew the circumstances.'

Moran propped his forehead against his hand and sighed. 'You ask for too much, with only your own story to back it up.'

'You could blackmail me with this!' cried Codrington. 'You could tell the police. But I risked telling you because I want to live!'

'I may not be in the best position to say this, but you take far too many risks.'

'It actually might not make a difference whether I deliver any money, if you tip off the police. He would trace it to me.'

Moran squinted at the younger man. 'Graves need only be six feet deep. But you never stopped shovelling, did you?'

Codrington nodded, resigned.

Moran sighed. 'I won't give you back your - his - money. If he exists. As you said, you put your own head in the noose.'

Codrington made no response.

'But,' said Moran, and Codrington held his head higher, with renewed hope, 'who the devil is this man?'

'I have never met him in person, but I am sure it would do you no good to know him,' said Codrington, deflated. 

'It would do him good. If he exists, as you say, the money is rightfully - no, wrongfully... What I mean is he claimed it first. Why should I trust you with it, after what you did? How does he achieve anything with people like you as his hirelings? What if I delivered it to him?'

'G-good Lord, I... I'm not sure if that is a good idea,' stammered Codrington.

'You should have these reservations more often. But is it possible? If not, I will assume your entire story was a needlessly damaging lie, and keep the money.'

Codrington gave in. 'I will send a message.'

'Good,' said Moran. He laughed hollowly, wondering what he was getting into. 'I really am in no position to give you advice, am I?'


	4. Chapter 4

Clouds obscured the night sky. Moriarty knew full well that it was not the best night to stargaze, but he made his trek out of the comfort of his lodgings all the same.

In the year he had been studying at Oxford, there had been nights like this before, when his feet took him out to the fields, and he did not resist. The stars had always served as guiding lights for humanity, but Moriarty knew that the reason he turned to them on lonely nights was for a kind of direction they had no power to give. Still, he found himself looking to them again and again - not to take measure of them, as he did at other times, but in the private hope that he would, in their company, come to realise his own measures.

These mindless, distant balls of fire were maps, memorials to myths, and the sometime masters of men’s fates. Was it too much to expect a greater pattern to soon surface out of his own life?

But tonight, Moriarty had to settle for watching a certain cloud shift lazily past the moon like some heavenly slug. It was not particularly inspiring.

While waiting for at least a momentary view of the moon, he heard approaching laughter and erratic shouting - a group of students back from a night out. He craned his neck to look at them, not moving away from the tree he leaned against.

They all wore tailcoats - so it was the Bullingdon Club, doing their usual. He would have paid them no further attention, but his movement was enough for one of them to notice him. He broke away from the group, to the others’ amusement, and strode unsteadily towards Moriarty.

Moriarty tensed. But when the man came close enough for Moriarty to recognise his face, he knew almost certainly what the encounter was about.

The man swung a fist at his face - only to have it land on the tree trunk, at full force. Moriarty narrowly dodged the blow, and now stood out in the open. The man cursed in pain and stepped back from the tree, as the other Bullers howled at a distance. Moriarty kicked the back of his knee. He stumbled forward. Another kick, and he fell to the ground.

Moriarty dropped onto one knee and twisted the man’s right arm backwards, locking it with his elbow. The man yelped. The voices of his friends grew fainter as they walked away.

‘Do you like this better than a draw?’ asked Moriarty. The man grunted with displeasure.

‘If you did this then,’ the man hissed, ‘you would have been disqualified.’

‘This is now. And I thought you weren’t happy with their rules.’

‘Mmm, I’m not.’ The man grunted again and tapped at the ground with his left hand. Moriarty let go of him. He pushed himself off the ground, groaning all the while, and struggled to stand.

Moriarty stood and continued watching him. He gave up and remained seated on the grass, looking up at the sky.

‘Are you going to sleep out here?’ scoffed Moriarty. The man shrugged, or at least tried to.

‘You can hardly see anything tonight,’ said Moriarty, glancing upwards. ‘I’m heading home.’

But he remained standing next to the man. A moment later, he held out his hand. The man appeared not to see it, which was unconvincing, considering the distance from which he had recognised Moriarty earlier. Moriarty waved it in front of his face.

‘What?’ the man slurred.

Moriarty held out his hand again, more forcefully, not deigning to give any explanation. Without making eye contact, the man took it, and Moriarty helped him up.

  


The next time Moriarty saw him was on a rainy morning a week later.

He had made a mad dash towards the archway Moriarty stood underneath, waiting for the rain to die down, and now busied himself with closing his umbrella.

‘You have good eyesight,’ joked Moriarty.

He looked up in mock surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

The bruises Moriarty gained from the boxing match that started it all had faded, and so had his, as far as Moriarty could tell. His too-easily-wounded pride had also recovered, if that was any indication. Still, it was worth confirming.

‘Where are your Buller friends?’

‘Same place they were after I asked you for a beating that night,’ he said, with an ironical twinkle in his clear blue eyes.

Moriarty smiled. So he had self-awareness, after all.

‘I see,’ said the man, ‘that you don’t have an umbrella.’

‘Yes, unfortunately, I didn’t bring mine.’

He held out his umbrella. Moriarty looked at it. He opened it and held it up demonstratively.

‘What?’ asked Moriarty.

‘Come on,’ said the man, impatiently, ‘where are you going?’

‘Oh,’ said Moriarty, finally understanding his offer. ‘But I…must ask you something.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.’

The man furrowed his brow in disbelief. ‘ _Forgotten_?’

‘I remember your face! I can recognise you, make no mistake! But your name…’ Moriarty trailed off, tilting his head this way and that.

‘I would have thought, after a match like that, anyone would-’

‘Forgive me, I’m terrible with names! And I didn’t ask that night because…you know.’

‘Well, _James Moriarty_ ,’ the man said, relishing the fact that one of them remembered the other’s name, ‘my name is Sebastian Moran.’


	5. Chapter 5

Moran had heard good things about this mysterious schoolmate. He was supposedly a form above Moran, and hadn't gotten anyone into any trouble.

But what if Moran became the first to be caught cheating? His parents would take even less kindly to that than if he failed mathematics. And the whole scheme would unravel, earning him the ire of his fellow students. He didn't know how many of them were involved in this.

But his hatred for algebra was stronger than any of these worries.

He dropped hints to everyone he trusted, and one day, someone stealthily dropped a note on the table he was using in the library. It contained instructions.

Now, he climbed up the stairs to one of the house dormitories, and entered a specific room. Another boy was inside, waiting for Moran.

He held out a sheet of foolscap. 'Write your name on the next line,' he said, passing Moran a pen with his other hand. Moran did so. Before the other boy snatched the paper away, he saw a couple of surprising names above his.

'Payment?' the other boy said.

Moran dug out a wad of notes from his pocket and gave them to him. He counted them. 'Good. Now, your handwriting.'

Moran handed him the folder he had been carrying, which contained samples of his schoolwork. The other boy opened it to check its contents, then set it down on his side table.

'You can go now.'

Moran stayed.

'I said you can-'

'Why are you wearing that?' Moran asked.

'What?' the other boy asked, his voice muffled through the thick wool scarf that covered his neck and mouth. On his head, he wore a fitted cloth cap, and over his eyes, protective goggles, like an engineer's.

Moran frowned at him.

'It's for secrecy.'

'I don't know,' said Moran, 'I think I saw that James Moriarty in that cap, once.'

'He lent it to me.'

'He and his roommate also lent you this room?'

'Yes, they did.'

'Moriarty is awfully good at maths.'

'Yes, he is.'

'But did you see him in the last play? Between you and me, his acting is-'

The other boy tore off his hat and scarf, revealing a dishevelled, angry James Moriarty, still wearing goggles.

Moran cackled in satisfaction.

Moriarty pulled the goggles off his head. In the process, his hair, damp with sweat from wearing winter adornments in summer, stuck upwards. He patted it down with disgust. All the while, Moran was doubled over with silent laughter, endlessly amused, but wary that he might attract the attention of anyone walking past the door.

'Has...' Moran began, collecting himself, 'No one ever noticed?'

'I don't usually dress up,' Moriarty said.

'Oh? Why not?'

Moriarty rolled his eyes. 'It used to be just Randall, when I fagged for him. Then he told his friends. Then a rumour spread to the lower forms, but luckily none of them knew it was me.

'Now almost everyone who knows it's me has graduated, so I thought I'd see if I could get a new "client" anonymously.'

'They'd rat you out,' said Moran. 'Not because it's right, but so everyone could laugh at you.'

Moriarty crossed his arms defensively.

'But those names,' said Moran, 'They wouldn't want to be taken down with you.'

Moriarty nodded in agreement, but still wore his annoyance plain on his face.

'Better put those papers away now,' said Moran.

Moriarty grunted and stuffed them in the drawer of his side table.

An idea occurred to Moran. 'Has anyone tried to expose this? Steal your records?'

'Not yet. And I have more than one copy.'

'Anyone threatened you?' asked Moran, waving a fist.

'Not yet. But I don't see the point of that.'

'They're not as bright as you,' said Moran. 'Do you handle everything yourself?'

'Yes.'

'Awful lot of work,' said Moran.

'It's really not. You were lucky. I won't accept another new client now. More would be too risky,' said Moriarty, now mostly recovered from his earlier rage. 'But maths isn't half as hard as you lot think it is. It's just the forgery that's tedious.'

'Maybe you could spread the work around,' said Moran. 'And the money.'

Moriarty looked at him.

'Think about it,' said Moran, smiling, before he started for the door.

'Moran.'

He stopped and turned back.

'Why do you think I let you see the names?' said Moriarty.

Moran hesitated.

'They haven't been very kind to you, either, have they?'

'No.' They hated him, and the feeling was mutual.

'Do you want to see them put in their place?' Moriarty asked.

Moran met his eyes. They had a new reptilian sheen.

Moran took a breath. 'Yes,' he said.

'I thought so,' said Moriarty, smugly.

Slowly, Moran grinned. This was better than he expected.

'I take back what I said about your acting,' he said. Moriarty chuckled.

'But,' added Moran, 'You will do my work for me, won't you? I paid you.'

'...alright, Moran.'


	6. Chapter 6

Holmes catches sight of a man standing with his arms crossed, looking out at the mountainous expanse beyond the edge of the cliff. He quickens his pace. As he reaches the end of the footpath, he announces his presence.

‘Professor Moriarty.’

Moriarty turns away from the vista of the falls and fixes Holmes with a steely gaze. Holmes steps closer, and they face each other, with only the roar of water crashing into the river below filling the silence.

Finally, Moriarty speaks. ‘There is nothing more to be said.’

Holmes gives a curt nod. ‘Between us, true. But I trust you can afford me a moment to leave a message for a man to whom my words would still matter.’

It is Moriarty’s turn to nod. He waves a hand dismissively, indicating a large rock beside the path, still clearly within his sight. Holmes walks towards it and perches upon it.

He retrieves his cigarette-case and pulls out three small pieces of blank paper from inside. He smooths them out against the surface of the case and takes a pen out from his pocket. Then, he begins writing.

‘My dear Moran…’


End file.
